


Abduction

by anonlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape Role-play, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonlock/pseuds/anonlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/7277.html?thread=35708013#t35708013">From this prompt on the Sherlock kinkmeme</a>
</p>
<p> ==I would currently give my right arm for some Lestrade/John rape play. Lestrade in the 'attacker' role, please!</p>
<p>And then tea and cuddling, because those two are a bit ridiculous and they would ~worry~ afterwards.==</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abduction

_Many things about this are not good._

It was a line from a Doctor Who re-run that John had seen in hospital, while he was recuperating; recalled from his subconscious for this inappropriate moment. It was, he reflected as he was slammed face-first into a dank wall, somewhat of an understatement.

"Look, my wallet's in my back pocket. Just take it and go, all right?" Why had he left the gun in the flat? 

Because he hadn't expected to be mugged on the walk home from the pub, that was why. He shouldn't have cut through that alley, but it was too late to worry about that now.

His captor made no reply, and John shifted his weight. If he could get enough leverage--

The man kicked his legs apart, unbalancing him, and pressed him further into the wall. "Oi! None of that." His hands were yanked behind his back and tied before he could straighten up.

"No, hey, what are you--let me go, okay? I won't fight you, you can have the money, just let me go." 

The man chuckled, and a chill ran up John's spine. "I'm not after your money."

Abruptly some sort of cloth was being tied around John's head, blindfolding him, and he tensed even more. He really should be used to this--being kidnapped by Sherlock's enemies was practically a weekly occurrence by now--but the adrenaline rush happened every time, the heightened awareness, the overstimulated senses. He could feel the grit and the scrape on his cheek; could smell the aftershave of the man still pressed closely behind him. He took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm.

The man gripped his shoulder, pulling him away from the wall, and he was shoved forwards at too quick a pace, stumbling and off-balance. If it hadn't been for the man's firm grip on him, he'd have fallen more than once. He quickly lost track of the route they were taking, but it was only a few minutes until they stopped, and he heard a key being inserted into a lock.

The man pulled him into a building and shut the door behind them. Small space, John thought, listening to the echoes. Stale, musty smell. Apartment building, possibly? Back stairs, not used often. "Up," the man ordered, confirming John's deductions. 

They were on the third floor, by John's count, when they stopped climbing. The man dragged John through another couple of doors, and finally let go of him.

John immediately tested the wrist restraints, but they were tight. At least his shoulders hadn't been pulled back too painfully, that was something. "Can I sit down?"

"No." The man was too close behind him, still; the low growl made him jump slightly. "I like you just where you are."

Stay calm, he reminded himself. Keep him talking. "Whatever it is that you want, this isn't the way to get it."

The man chuckled again. "What makes you think you know what I want?"

The laughter was having the same effect on John that it had had previously. He swallowed, licking his lips nervously. "You don't want money. You don't want me to see your face. That implies that you don't want to kill me. I'm here to provide leverage. You want something from Sherlock Holmes, and I'm your bargaining chip."

"Wrong," the man hissed, and for the first time his voice sounded angry. "This has nothing to do with Sherlock Fucking Holmes."

"Then what--"

And then he froze, as the man rested his hands on John's shoulders, almost gently, and spoke softly into his ear. "Really, Doctor. Use your imagination. Can't you think of anything else that someone might want from you?"

"No," he said automatically, but he was shuddering already. "No, I--you can't--"

"Well," the man said softly. "Maybe it does have something to do with Holmes after all. Just a bit."

Was that better or worse? He didn't know, at this point. "What do you want?"

"You," the man whispered. One of his hands slid off of John's shoulder, down his body, stopping at his hip. Don't make him angry, not yet, John told himself frantically, controlling the part of himself that wanted to jerk away. "I see you with him," the man continued. "The way you follow him around. Like a little puppy, you are, you just roll over and wag for him. You'd get on your knees for him in a minute, wouldn't you?"

John shook his head. "No. It's not like that."

The man's grip on his hip tightened. "I've seen you. You'd give him anything he wanted, I can tell. But he doesn't want it, does he? He doesn't even see you. Not like I do."

He wished he had some idea of the layout of the flat. He was pretty sure he could move fast enough to knock the man over, even bound and blindfolded, but then he couldn't be sure of reaching the door and making his way out before the man recovered--

"Don't," the man whispered, and his other hand came up to cradle John's jaw. John flinched, but the man only held him tighter. "I can see it on your face. Whatever you're planning, don't try it. You really don't want to make me angry."

"And you really don't want to make me angry," John retorted, thankful that his voice wasn't shaking. "Do you really think you'll get away with this? I'll find you. Or Sherlock will."

The man laughed. "He won't even look for me. Do you know why? Because you won't tell him. You won't tell anyone. You'll be too embarrassed to tell them that a stranger abducted you off the street and you begged him to fuck you."

"I didn't," John said, and dammit, his voice was shaking now, just a bit. "I'm not."

"You will."

Before John could think of a response to that, the stranger let go of him. He was still close, though; John could feel his breath on the side of his face. Unconsciously, he braced himself as the man moved to stand in front of him. "Kneel down."

"No."

He could hear the man turning slightly, reaching for something, and suddenly a hard, thin line was pressing against John's throat. "Kneel."

Fuck. His throat was suddenly so dry, he had to swallow before he could speak. "I thought you didn't want to hurt me."

"You said that, not me," the man replied. "And I won't hurt you. As long as you do exactly as I say. Kneel." His tone this time was unmistakably menacing. John could feel his heart pounding against his ribs as his knees buckled, almost against his will. The thin line of pressure went with him as he sank down, and he imagined hard hands gripping the knife, his pulse throbbing against the blade, light glinting off of its polished surface. 

"You don't have to use the knife." His throat was still too dry, his voice too hoarse. "I'll cooperate." He would. There was no getting out of this, not now. The only thing to do was to endure whatever was going to happen, so that he could walk out of here alive.

"I know you will." The man laughed softly. "Why, Doctor Watson. Is that a stethoscope in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

Dammit. He'd hoped that wouldn't be noticed just yet. He ducked his head, hoping the blindfold was hiding the flush he could feel spreading over his face.

"Well, now, that is interesting," the man mused. "Is it the knife, or do you just like being on your knees?" He bent down a bit; the blade pressed against John's throat, and he held very still, not even breathing. "I think you enjoy being ordered about. That's why you follow Sherlock."

He straightened again, and the pressure was removed. John gulped in air, shifting a bit. His leg was already starting to cramp up. 

"Don't move," the man ordered. John heard the unmistakable sound of a zip sliding down, and he flinched. Then the sharp line was against his throat once again. "You're a smart man, Doctor Watson. I'm not going to have any trouble with you, am I?"

John swallowed. He felt the pressure on his throat even with that slight movement. The man pressed it against him slightly harder. "Am I, Doctor?"

"No," John whispered.

"There's a good boy," the man said softly. He ran a hand lightly over John's face, cupping his jaw. "Open up for me."

John shuddered, but opened his mouth obediently. Even though he had the blindfold on, he squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, trying not to think about what was happening. You're not here, he told himself. The man's cock was half-hard in his mouth already. Stop. You're back at the flat, with-- No, he really didn't want to think about Sherlock, not at this moment. You're back in Afghanistan. Dirt everywhere, impossible to keep anything clean, wind blowing--

Suddenly the man was gripping his hair, pulling his head forward forcefully, nearly choking him. "Your full attention, please, Doctor," he snarled. 

The pain grounded him, forced him to focus. He remembered the other thing he'd learned in Afghanistan--one thing at a time. Do the job that's in front of you. Ever mindful of the cold pressure still on his throat, he went to work.

"That's better," the man ground out. His voice had dropped, gone even rougher. "I knew you'd be good at this. I've seen you...at crime scenes. Licking your lips, watching him. He never notices, does he? Doesn't even see your pretty mouth." The hand fisted through John's hair was holding him still now, the man's cock thrusting into his mouth roughly, hitting the back of his throat repeatedly. John tried to block everything out, tried to focus only on not gagging, but the man's voice was insistent. "I see you. I've thought about you...on your knees for me. You look so gorgeous like this, just waiting for me to tell you what to do. Like you were made for it." Despite everything, that low, gravelly voice was going straight to John's cock.

He pulled out suddenly, and the grip in John's hair and the pressure on his throat both disappeared. John tensed even as he gulped for air again, waiting for whatever would happen next. He wished he could wipe his mouth. 

"Gorgeous," the man whispered again in his ear, and then he was yanking roughly on John's arms. "Come on, up you get. I want to see what you look like sprawled across my bed."

John stumbled to his feet. The man barely let him regain his balance before he was pushing him--down the hall, towards the bedroom, John suspected. He had both hands on John, which meant that wherever the knife was, he didn't have it readily to hand. John took the opportunity, stopping short suddenly. As the man bumped into him, John shoved himself sideways, as hard as he could. The man landed against the wall with a curse, but unfortunately he hadn't let go of John, who was dragged along with him, off-balance and with no leverage again. 

The man regained his footing quickly, spinning John around and pinning him face-first against the wall. "Don't," he hissed angrily in John's ear. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be." Then his tone changed, became more persuasive. "Stop fighting me, Doctor. You don't have to pretend you don't want this. Let me make it good for you."

He was pushing John again, his rough actions in direct contrast to the caressing tone of his words. Then the man gave him a particularly hard shove. John overbalanced, landing on something face-first with a soft thud. The man's bed, he barely had time to realize, before the man was pulling John's shoes off. He kicked out blindly, but the man was able to avoid his flailing feet with ease. He rolled John over and began unfastening John's trousers, skimming a hand over his not-yet-full, but obvious, arousal. "You see," he said, amusement clear in his voice. "You get off on the fight. I knew you would."

John rolled away, burying his face in the pillows. His captor ignored that for the moment in favor of yanking his trousers and pants down and off him in one quick movement. The sudden rush of cool air hit John, and he squirmed, suddenly feeling far more vulnerable than he had even a moment ago.

"Oh, that's nice," the man said, in obscene appreciation, and a hard smack landed on John's bare arse. He yelped in surprise, and squirmed awkwardly away again. There was a flurry of movement, and suddenly the man was straddling him, leaning close over him. "Oh, no, Doctor Watson. Can't have you running off yet. We're just getting to the fun part."

He could feel the man's cock pressing against him, fully hard and erect now. Don't move, he told himself. He wants you to struggle, it'll just excite him more... 

And then the man shifted and there were rustling sounds to the side, as he reached for something, and then something slick pressed against John's entrance, and he couldn't help himself; he twisted and thrashed and fought, and it ended as he'd known it would, with him panting and gasping for breath, his shoulder aching, and the man's full weight on top of him, pressing him down. "Not going to say I didn't enjoy that," the man remarked, almost conversationally. "But this will be much easier on you if you'll cooperate."

John didn't have enough breath left to respond. After a moment the man eased most of his weight off of him. John had managed to get one leg underneath him in the struggle, but the man had gotten a knee in between his legs, so all he'd done, John realized grimly, was manage to expose himself even more. 

"There you go," the man was saying, almost soothingly. "Easy now, just relax." He'd got more lube from somewhere, and now he pressed one finger inside before John even had time to catch his breath. John jerked in reflex again, but the man had a hand pressed down on the back on his neck so that he couldn't even turn his head. 

"Don't," he said breathlessly. The man ignored him and twisted his finger somehow, brushing the tiny bump inside John, and a whimper escaped him before he realized.

"Easy," the man whispered, and did it again, harder this time, and now John was twisting against the sheets for an entirely different reason.

As soon as he realized what he was doing, he managed to hold himself still through sheer force of will, trembling. He tried to speak, but he had to take a deep breath and clear his throat before the word would come out. "Stop."

"Mm, no. Don't think so." A second finger joined the first, and John gasped, trying to squirm away again, losing all the self-control he'd just gained. The man's hand on the back of his neck held him firm.

He concentrated on breathing. Four seconds out, six seconds in, or was it six seconds out, four in, God who could think with those fingers stretching him, touching him, rubbing him, and dammit but the man was good at this, and it hurt in all the right ways, and he was about to start whimpering again. He had to do something.

"I know who you are now," he forced out, between breaths. "I recognize your voice, I've seen you at the crime scenes."

It was a moment before the man answered; there was a slight breathlessness in his voice, too. "Yeah? Took you long enough."

He hadn't stopped the movement of his fingers, though, and John's hips were moving, he was rubbing against the sheets in spite of himself. "You're jealous of Sherlock. You can't do what he does, so you think you'll take something of his."

For the first time, there was a hint of anger in the man's voice, and his strokes became rougher. "Thought you said you weren't his."

Don't, John tried to tell himself dizzily. Don't spread your legs wider, don't try to push back onto his fingers-- Words. He needed words. "Not his. But...you think I am. That's why you want--" The man twisted his fingers sharply just then, and John lost whatever coherent thought he had left.

"That's just about enough out of you," the man grunted. His fingers withdrew, leaving John bereft for a moment, but the man shifted, repositioning himself. John felt one insistent nudge at his hole, and that was all the warning he got before the man was pushing inside him. He didn't stop until he was all the way in, and John was struggling to remember how to breathe again.

As soon as John had himself under some sort of control, the man began to move, setting up a rhythm. Not hard and furious, as John had half-expected, but slow and deep, managing to hit John's prostate more often than not. The burn and the slight pain faded to unimportance as John lost himself in the sensation of the friction. 

Eventually he realized that the man was talking, but John had to concentrate to understand what he was saying. "You're not his," the man rasped. "You're mine."

John managed to shake his head, and the man's fingers dug more tightly into his hips. "You are," he insisted. "And you might know who I am, but you won't report me. Because every time you see me at a crime scene, you're going to think about this. You're going to remember my fingers in you. You're going to remember my cock in your mouth and in your arse. You're going to remember squirming and moaning and begging for more, like the little slut that you are. And you wouldn't want any of them to know about that. Would you, Doctor?"

He managed to reach around John's body, lightly stroking a finger down his cock, and John very nearly groaned out loud. 

"Like that," the man gasped, stroking again as John's cock twitched. "How long do you think it'll take before Sherlock notices? How long before he sees you watching me? Before he figures out what you've done, and realizes that you want to do it again? Because he will. You know he will."

This was wrong, this was so wrong, bad enough that John was so turned on already that he almost couldn't speak--physiological response, direct stimulation, doesn't mean anything, doesn't-- but Sherlock would realize eventually, of course, and that thought had John closer to the edge than anything yet.

"You like that, don't you?" the man murmured. "You want him to know how filthy you are? How you're practically begging for it?" His touch on John's cock was still light, too light, and John was practically whimpering again, in frustration this time. "You want it. Just tell me."

John shook his head stubbornly again, and the man reached down lower, stroking his balls and the sensitive skin below them. "You're so close." His voice was deep and ragged now, his breathing uneven. "Just say it. Come on, John, say it for me."

He squeezed gently, and John nearly bit right through his lip, losing all control. "Fuck, please, I can't, I need, please..." 

He didn't even know what he was saying, but it didn't matter, because the man was stroking him in a firm grip now, whispering in his ear. "I know, it's all right, I've got you, it's okay..." and John was thrusting into his hand, everything in his head fading away and narrowing down into one point of sensation, and the man rubbed a thumb roughly over the head of his cock and the dark behind John's eyelids exploded with light as he came.

Slowly he became aware of the man speeding up behind him, pounding into him harder and faster, causing him to hiss at the overstimulation. It wasn't long before the man swore and his fingers clenched tight around John's hips. There'd be bruises there in the morning, John thought hazily.

The man half-collapsed across John's back, gasping for breath. John's own heart was still pounding entirely too fast, and he suddenly felt as if he were smothering under the other man's body weight. He shuddered and twisted violently, trying to throw the other man off.

"All right," the man grumbled. "I know, I'm moving." He pulled away carefully, slipping out of John and shifting his weight to the other side of the bed. 

John struggled to find words, and finally rasped out, "Let me go." It was quieter than he'd have liked; his throat was dry, he was becoming aware that he was covered in sweat and other bodily fluids, and he was completely exhausted.

The man rested a hand on his back, almost gently. "Not just yet. I've got more plans for you."

John twisted away again. "Don't touch me."

The man let go of him, but his voice was firm. "You may as well get some rest. You're not going anywhere for a while."

"Fuck you," John snarled, but he had no energy left to fight any more. The adrenaline from the ordeal was fading, and the lassitude from his orgasm was pulling him down. Even if he were released immediately, he'd barely be able to move. As much as he hated to admit it, his captor was right; if he wasn't going to be let go right away, he might as well get some rest.

He wriggled into as comfortable a position as he could manage, considering the handcuffs, and in moments he was asleep. 

****************

He awoke slowly, taking stock of his physical situation. The blindfold and cuffs had been removed, and he'd been covered with a sheet at some point. He stretched a bit, just to test his shoulder, and winced, deciding not to do that again for the moment. 

There was still a body in the bed beside him. The man was turned away; his breathing was deep and even, but John knew he was awake. 

John closed his eyes again, retreating within himself, and lay still for a long time. Eventually he felt things click into place again; felt himself again. He rolled closer to the other man, nearly touching him but not quite. "Hey," he said softly.

The other man twisted around so quickly that it would have been comical, if his eyes hadn't been wide and watchful. "Hey." He reached one hand out tentatively before stopping himself, his fingers hovering centimeters away from John's skin. "Are you--can I--"

John nodded, and Lestrade pulled him close, holding him tightly. John listened to his heartbeat through his shirt, and breathed in Lestrade's warmth and his distinctive smell, and gradually he reached out in return, wrapping his arm around Lestrade's waist.

At least that was what he intended to do. He hissed in pain as his shoulder protested the movement. 

Lestrade let go of him immediately and sat up. "Here, take these," he ordered, reaching for a couple of pills that sat on the bedside table and handing them to John. John took them without complaint--he should have remembered them himself earlier--and drank the entire glass of water that Lestrade handed him as well. 

Lestrade was watching him, frowning, as John handed the glass back to him. "How bad is it?" he demanded. "You were supposed to say if--"

"It's fine." John rotated his shoulder around experimentally, and winced. "Okay, it's mostly fine." Lestrade raised his eyebrows skeptically, and John rolled his eyes. "No, honestly, it'll be all right. I got carried away, okay? It wasn't actually hurting at the time. What with the adrenaline and all."

Lestrade was still frowning. "Let's see your wrists."

John started to object, but Lestrade fixed him with a Look. "You agreed," he said warningly. "We don't do this unless you let me check you over."

"I am actually a doctor," John grumbled, but he held out his wrists for Lestrade to inspect. They were fine, as John had known they'd be; they'd bought padded cuffs for a reason, after all. Still, John had struggled fairly hard, and Lestrade, as John knew perfectly well, tended to worry.

"Anything else?" Lestrade asked, when he was satisfied about the condition of John's wrists. 

John bit back his instinctive response and considered, taking stock of the various aches and pains he could feel. "Bit sore here and there," he said finally, truthfully. "Nothing those pills won't take care of."

He didn't like admitting even that much; it made him feel exposed, vulnerable. Looking at the expression on Lestrade's face, though, he realized that he wasn't the only one. "Enough of that," he muttered, and reached for Lestrade, pulling them both down until they were huddled together under the covers again.

"I don't like hurting you," Lestrade said tightly, after a while, and John wriggled impossibly closer somehow. 

"You didn't. Honestly. There was nothing worse than any other time, it's just I promised to tell you this time. You didn't do anything I didn't want."

Lestrade ran a hand over the back of John's head, and John leaned into the touch. "You're sure?"

"Bet you've got some bruises from where I shoved you into the wall," John retorted. "Don't hear you complaining."

"I didn't even feel it at the time," Lestrade admitted.

"All right, then." Something sparked in John's memory then, and his hand flew to his neck. "The knife! What was that all about?" 

To his surprise, Lestrade actually laughed. "Wasn't a knife," he explained. "It was a piece of ice. Frozen with an edge on it, to make it feel sharp."

"Ice?" It had been awfully cold, John remembered. He laughed, too. "You scared the hell out of me."

"Wasn't too much, was it?"

John thought about it. "No. I mean...I knew you wouldn't hurt me. But I couldn't figure out what you were up to. It made everything so much more...intense. More real. Sort of kept me off-balance." The memory sent a jolt through his stomach, half fear and half excitement, and he looked up and met Lestrade's worried gaze. "Not too much. Very good, in fact."

Lestrade's expression eased a bit. "I had other plans for that ice, too," he complained. "But it started melting. If you'd felt it dripping down your neck, I don't know what you'd have thought."

John couldn't stop giggling at the idea, and Lestrade pulled him closer again, wrapping both arms around him. John relaxed into his hold, snuggling as close as he could get. This was how it always went; once he'd got to the point where he was willing to be touched, suddenly he couldn't get enough of it.

As they lay there, bits and pieces of the night before drifted back into John's head. "Oh, God," he said suddenly. "What I said--about Sherlock. About how you're jealous of him. I didn't mean it, you know that, right?"

Lestrade was rubbing his back now. "Course I'm not jealous of him. He gets to jump around being brilliant and solving crimes. I get you in my bed. You couldn't pay me to trade."

"I don't even know why I brought him into it," John said, grimacing. "Well, no, I do. You seemed to be sort of...fixated on him. Me and him. I just sort of went with that."

John was too close to see his expression, but he heard Lestrade take a deep breath. "What I said," he said hesitantly. "About you following him around, looking for attention. You know I didn't mean that either. I was trying to figure out some reason to have picked you up off the street, and you mentioned him, and I got carried away."

John grinned. "I do follow him around. Because it's fun." He reached up and pulled Lestrade's head down to his for another kiss, but Lestrade was resisting. John let go and looked up at him. "What?"

"It really pissed me off when you said no one would want you except to get to him." Lestrade swallowed. "And then I made it all about him anyway. I'm sorry."

"Hey." John pulled on him gently again, and this time Lestrade complied. "All that stuff you said about him, I didn't mind. Because it ended up with that speech about how every time I saw you at a crime scene, I'd be thinking of your cock in my arse, and damn, that was hot."

He thought about it for a moment. "He will deduce that, you know," he added.

"God help us," Lestrade sighed, and John couldn't help giggling again. 

"So we're okay." Lestrade was stroking John's head again now, ruffling his hair playfully and dipping down to rub the back of his neck, and John buried his face in the curve of Lestrade's shoulder and sighed in sheer contentment. 

"We're fine." He considered. "Actually, in a while I'm going to want a shower and some tea and some clean clothes. And, okay, quite possibly fewer Sherlock references next time. But for now...right now, I am absolutely good."

"I'll make some tea," Lestrade offered.

"Not just yet," John murmured against his shoulder, and Lestrade's arms tightened around him. 

"Go back to sleep, then," he suggested softly.

John nodded in agreement and closed his eyes, knowing that Lestrade wouldn't sleep until he did; knowing that when he woke, Lestrade would still be there, wrapped around him, waiting patiently until John was ready to let go.


End file.
